


What's Left

by the_gramophone



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_gramophone/pseuds/the_gramophone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sherlock gone, John struggles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Left

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a belated birthday present to my prize beta fish, the lovely Sarah, who likes sad things! I could not do most of what I do, both in fandom and on a regular, day to day basis, without her. 
> 
> Un-betaed because that would really ruin the surprise of a birthday gift and I am beta-monogamous.

_2 June 2012_

John came to slowly, letting go of sleep bit by bit as the noise of London washed over him. His body felt stiff and old and he regretted kipping on the sofa last night. He shifted slightly and noted distantly as a fresh wave of pain burst from the tired, disused joints in his knee. He groaned and threw an arm over his head. 

In the distance, the air conditioner creaked and came to life. 

_17 September 2012_

“I’ve had a nice time,” the woman said, leaning in close to press her hands lightly against John’s chest. Her smile was shy and full of promise. 

John thought she was a teacher of some sort. Or a secretary. Maybe a shopgirl. 

He sighed and leaned in, bracing against the suffocating scent of her perfume, closed his eyes and thought of a man from a different time, with fairer skin and darker hair. 

Annabel fell asleep soon after, contentment and satisfaction curled over her like a blanket in the evening air. John left without leaving a note. 

_5 November 2012_

John stumped up the stairs of the Underground. A shouting group of teenagers ran past, jostling and cheering. A stray elbow caught John in the shoulder and he slammed into the wall, gasping. 

The teenagers were gone and the night was still, save the sound of John’s uneven, rasping breaths. He closed his eyes for a moment, drinking in the silence, before steeling himself to face the streets. 

He was home only moments before Mrs Hudson bustled in with a tea tray. 

“You don’t want to join the festivities, dear?” she asked as she stirred sugar into a cup. 

There had been a case. A man with a bomb, hidden in an effigy. Simple, obvious – even to John. They handed the results to the Yard in record time and celebrated by getting piss-drunk and judging (observing!) the revelers passing by. 

That night. 

That had been the first night that – 

And now. 

“No,” John said, taking his cup. “Not a fan of the holiday.”

_6 January, 2013_

“You look dreadful,” a cheery, feminine voice somewhere to his left commented. 

John refused to look up from his pint. “Do I?”

He heard a scrape of the chair next to him moving. “Yes,” the voice said again. “Would you like to talk about it?”

He looked up to tell the bint to _back off_ , leave him alone in his wallowing, he was quite happy as he was, thank you. 

Bright blue eyes under a head of dark curls stared back at him and John lost his breath. It wasn’t great, it wasn’t even _close_ , but he thought _Maybe this can be enough_ , and began to talk. 

_31 March, 2013_

Mary scowled from her spot nestled amongst the nest of pillows she had built in the night. “I don’t see why we can’t have a nice day, the two of us,” she said petulantly. 

John nodded absently as he tied his shoe. “Hm.”

A pillow hit him in the side of the head. “Oy! Watson!”

John laughed softly and ducked across the bed to press a quick kiss to her cheek. “Tomorrow,” he promised. He strode from the room before she could protest again. 

The grave looked the same as always. Mrs Hudson and he had been by on New Year’s to lay a batch of lilies. Someone – a maintenance worker, he supposed – had since cleared them. John lay a fresh bouquet of white roses he had picked up along the way at the base of the stone. 

The wind blew, and John wished he had brought a scarf. He looked around the empty cemetery and lowered himself to sit with his back against the cool marble, legs spread in front of him. 

He leaned his head back to rest it against the stone. It was quiet. He was still cold. Something was poking him. He looked down and shifted the flowers out of the way before leaning back again. The wind whistled through the few trees and John began to speak. 

John told him about Mrs Hudson, Mary, his limp, his work at the practice. He spoke until his throat ran dry. His nose began to ran and he coughed as much as spoke, but he did not stop. Hours passed. Families came and went. A young girl knelt crying at a grave not far off, and John wondered if she was there for a similar reason. John voiced the question aloud, because he could. 

Shadows began to grow and afternoon turned to dusk and John fell into an easy sleep, curled around the stone. He woke as night fell. He blinked into sudden wariness, and, looking around, saw that he was once more the only one in the cemetery. Climbing unsteadily to his feet, he peered into the copse of trees, and again down the path into a different lot before sighing and, after taking a moment to rearrange the roses, walking slowly away. He did not return. 

_2 June, 2013_

John locked himself in his apartment and spent the day drinking heavily. He did not answer any calls and spoke to no one. 

_15 June, 2013_

“I’m glad you’ve taken up running again,” Mary said, idly tracing patterns over John’s arm as she spoke. “I think it will be good for you.”

“I think you’re right,” John said as he stared at the wallpaper on her ceiling. 

Mary grinned lasciviously. “Do you want to see if you’ve built up some endurance?”

John turned his head slightly and offered a brief smile. “I have to get up early in the morning.”

“Of course,” Mary said, drawing back. John had already turned on his side. 

_28 August, 2013_

“I’m taking a leave of absence from work,” John said. 

The words appeared to hit Mary slowly, striking first in the eyebrows before sliding down to her mouth and her shoulders. “When did you decide this?” she asked quietly.

“Recently. I have inheritance I can live on, for now. Until I go back.”

Mary nodded, carefully. “You love being a doctor.” It was not a question. 

John shrugged and took a sip of tea. It was not something he was willing to go into. 

Mary reached forward, lightly touching John’s chin. He looked up. Something in his face gave her the answers she was looking for because suddenly she was standing, speaking, crying, leaving. 

John sat. 

_18 December, 2013_

John sat on the dingy tile against the kitchen counter. He held the knife with both hands, testing its weight. It was a butcher knife that had seen better days, with a block handle and a slowly re-furnished blade. It had mostly been used for less delicate experiments. 

John rolled up both sleeves of the cardigan Harry had sent him for Christmas. He pressed a finger to the cold steel of the side of the blade, and closed his eyes at the sharp thrill that ran through him at the touch. He held the knife by its beaten wooden handle and pressed the side against the intersection of large veins in his wrist. His stomach clenched and he hissed, throwing his head back as one small droplet of blood began to pool. 

He lifted the knife away and considered his work. The blood had begun to run down his arm in a thin, pale line, into his sleeve. John’s breath began to pick up and he grinned. 

Outside, snow began to fall, and a man turned onto Baker Street. He was impossibly tall, and pale, with hair as dark as a fairytale princess and eyes as exquisite and indecipherable as he. The closer he got to the building, the faster he walked. A casual observer would think he was anxious to get home from a very long day of work. They would not be entirely wrong. 

Inside, John’s hand flashed, swift and lethal as he was trained and he slumped to the floor. His face drained color as rapidly as the tile around him swirled with blood. He spared one last thought to closing his eyes, and, smiling, murmured, _“Sherlock”._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr at abravelittletoaster, where I swear I mostly post happy things :)


End file.
